


Host

by areneecz



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Broken Promises, Gen, Gun Violence, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Injury, Lies, One Shot, Serious Injuries, Short One Shot, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 15:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11382885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areneecz/pseuds/areneecz
Summary: A delve into the events witnessed before the inevitable end of Miles Upshur.





	Host

Butchered fingers dragged over the cold stone floor as heaving boots pushed forward. Leather, expensive at the look of it. Behind the masses sat a singular wheelchair, the rotting face of creation within the aging furniture. Wernicke. Bastard, asshole, liar. Whatever word Miles could manage to conjugate fit perfectly with the man's back-stabbing personality. A man who promised freedom, but now, as he lay gagging on the taste of brimming iron, perhaps it was yet another illusion Murkoff managed to provide. Guns raised, the barrel of heavy-duty weapons used for precise elimination sat digging into the flesh of his back. Even with the protection of his favored leather jacket, the pain still seethed through the rough material.

"You've managed to succeed, no?" The man questioned, protection parting to allow him passageway. Fingers twitching to curl around the arm-rests of the well worn-in wheelchair. Lifeless eyes flickering over Miles form as he lay writhing on the concrete floor, his own eyes almost fighting to remain open, conscious.

"F-Fuck." Miles wheezed, spiting a fair collection of blood from his mouth. Coughs wracking his form as pooling crimson flooded the small space below. Hands shifting, leather hissing as he attempted to move underneath the painful pin of military. "Fuck you." He managed to pull together, a glare in his eyes as he forced his consciousness forward.

"Yes." Wernicke lulled, a shift in technology as he swiveled to rotate. "I suppose you've learned of my true intentions." He added, a wheezing notion changing his dull facial features.

Sitting, a single hand inched forward. Aged fingers attempted to display a wave, a disgruntled notation to ease away the claustrophobic swarming of military personnel. With stubborn intention, weapons ceased and the familiar sting of pressure faded. Like a crowd witnessing the pain and suffering of an injured animal, the group circled. Feet at the ready, weapons clutched tightly. Turning, a groan escaped his lips. Miles, easing forward in an attempt to pull himself to his knees. It seemed pathetic, really, fighting. He was powerless against a crowd of armed soldiers, but a sliver refused to stop, with everything he had managed to witness, he refused to die at the hands of Wernicke.

"Y-You fucking snake." Miles hissed, an anger shadowing his personality as he shifted to slouch against the cold wall adjacent. "Looking for a poor stupid bastard to free you from your own goddamn mistakes." He groaned, words almost too painful to speak. Pain within only exceeding as he clutched at his beaten and bruised torso.

"And you fit the role." Wernicke chuckled coldly, a dark humor ghosting over. A hue to his eyes that oozed inhumanity. What this man managed to create, the pain he issued, he was the biggest monster here, the beast below. "Poor, stupid." He listed, a single finger moving to produce a dull tapping. "Smart, experienced, damaged." He continued, eyes deep and sunken, bruised. With another gesture, the personnel swarmed. His final moments before bullets riddled his body. Before the lying pythons of Murkoff eradicated him from the face of the Earth.

"So, this is it?" Miles questioned, eyes ignoring the seething gaze of protection as he pried through the crowd. His consciousness focused on the man of creation. Thoughts incomprehensible to piece together, how the man before him was the source of every horror he had been forced to witness. "Kill me, keep these secrets hidden?" He added, an obvious agitation as he continued his invasive questioning. Images faltered, the room, spinning, fading, his jacket damp, sides heavy with the absorption of blood, limbs growing heavy as the room shifted nauseatingly.

"Chatty, are we?" Wernicke replied, hidden behind a wall of security his grin was evident. The drumming echo of wrinkled fingers against a singular arm-rest echoed within the small space. Area growing hot and humid with the amount of attention received. "You no-good journalists have been trying to expose my plans from day one." He added, an agitation, a nerve clearly struck. "Take him out." Wernicke issued, a sudden abandonment as churning wheels rushed forward effortlessly. "We have things to do, hm?" He added, unamused with the situation at hand.

Cold. The sudden humidity faded, replaced with the sheer chill of fear. Death. In a place like Murkoff, it's all that surrounded him, he already felt deceased, lost to the madness of cruelty. Guns cocked, a array of deadly precision encircling him. Leather, suits of blackened armor, faces hidden, unable to grasp the severity of the issue, the severity of Miles pain. Men paid to kill, beasts who executed without a single shred of remorse. With a sudden notation, weapons moved, barrels igniting with the powder of betrayal. Bullets, the first was painless, as dull as the thrash of the beast, but the countless that followed riddled his flesh, an endless brigade, a seething pain that refused to cease.

Death. Was this it? It was hard to tell. It was dark, a different place from the cold hallway he once resided in. A inky abyss of unfamiliarity. Limbs. Wherever he was, feeling was yet to be eliminated, a feeling of weight, his shifting body, it was there. The sudden shift of shadows before his eyes caught his attention, he could see, barley, the white hallways sat, walls plastered with the familiar ooze, weapons, once used to terminate sat slouched, fearful faces watching the creature before them.

"Gott in Himmel." A familiar voice called, features unseen as a towering shadow loomed over the area. "You have become the host." Wernicke ushered fearfully.

A shaking tone, the room filled with screams. Lost, the void he sat within only reverberated the deafening pleas. Was he blind? Was an unseen monster coming for him after ripping through Wernicke's personnel? Silence. Filling the room, the screams subsided. The ooze that plagued his vision faded, and the blaring white halls returned. Blood. It was everywhere, walls, doors, and on his hands. Fingers. The underneath of his nails plastered with the flesh of the men who laid lifeless. The head of Wernicke at his feet, an eternal scream plastered on his lifeless face. Who was he, more importantly, what was he?

A sudden smirk plastered his blood covered face as he carelessly paraded over the collection of dismembered soldiers, heel crushing the head below like the cave-in of a rotting pumpkin. A sudden anger within, a part of him knew what he was, and what he was capable of. The man who first entered Mount Massive was gone, replaced with Wernicke's nightmares. 


End file.
